


you make it hard to leave

by ambrosias



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Recreational Drug Use, because of the recreational drug use lmao, i am so hashtag bitchmade for this band, i just got a new computer and this is the first thing i did INCREDIBLE, no explicit consent despite my own moral objections :/ sorry folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambrosias/pseuds/ambrosias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re very, very high, is the thing, so Louis almost doesn’t catch it himself when he says, “I’m really horny.”</p><p>or that one terrible, horrible, no good, very bad friends-with-benefits trope with 7k of gross pining. you've been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you make it hard to leave

**Author's Note:**

> i am so sick and disgusting right now but this is what i wrote under the influence of 8 different kinds of cold medicine ENJOY
> 
> title from talk dirty - jason derulo B)
> 
> incredibly late A/N: please heed the tags! rereading years down the line and this fic is already humbling in its cringe levels, but the lack of explicit consent is one of my greater regrets. my pride keeps me from deleting it, though, if mostly because the comments keep me going, so just keep it in mind! mixing alcohol/other substances and sex is never a good idea, kids!

Louis doesn’t really mean to say it.

He blames it on the fact that they’re very, very high and very, very horny because like—boys. Biology. Whatever. It’s less science, more just the principle of the thing.

Anyway, it’s how he finds himself about six hits in watching the way Harry’s nimble fingers work their way around the bowl. It’s only his third time getting high with them, but he’s a fast learner and also a huge lightweight, so he’s Louis’s favorite addition, getting all giggly and glassy-eyed with just a few hits. This time it’s not the same though, Niall and Liam gone to a psych exam, and Zayn having taken to his fallen-off-the-earth routine this week, which just leaves Harry and Louis watching E! News on mute through the smoke of Louis’s dorm.

He’s focused intently on the way Harry brings the bowl up to his lips and inhales, so he almost doesn’t catch it himself when he says, “I’m really horny.”

This wouldn’t be a first; Louis can’t count the number of times he and Niall have popped an unfortunate boner together on both hands, but—it feels a bit different now. Harry’s younger than them, probably doesn’t understand their dynamics that well, and then, oh god, Gemma’s his _sister_ , what if—

Harry snorts, “Are you gonna do something about it?” He’s looking over at Louis dazedly, gaze hooded, and it’s not really doing much by way of like, turning Louis _off_.

He shifts back on the bed and fits his arms behind his head, looking down to where Harry’s sitting on the floor in front of him. “Can’t taint your image of me this early on, young Harold.”

“‘M eigh _teen_.” He pouts indignantly, jutting his lower lip out, so Louis can’t really be blamed when his eyes drop to the soft curve of his mouth. He can probably be blamed a little when he imagines that mouth wrapped around him, but. Semantics.

“Still a wee babe,” Louis says. When Harry’s brow furrows, Louis grins.

It’s quiet for a bit, the bowl forgotten as they listen to the sound of each other’s inhales and exhales, and it would be weird if they weren’t incredibly stoned and oddly comfortable after just a few months of knowing each other. It _should_ be weird, really, how well they mesh together, how easy it was to add space in study groups and movie nights for Harry after Gemma had introduced them at the beginning of the year, but it’s not, not even as Harry moves up on the bed next to Louis, touching from hip to heel.

“You, uh,” Harry starts and clears his throat. Louis looks up, movements slower than he’d like. “You know you can. If you want,” and Louis must’ve missed something somewhere because:

“What.”

Harry fidgets around a little, but seems to come to a decision as he turns to Louis on the twin bed. “Like, if you need to get off.” His gaze has fallen to Louis’s lap as he fiddles with the hem of his frayed sweatshirt and Louis feels himself flush. He starts to open his mouth to say god knows what (because _what_ ), but Harry beats him to the punch, continuing, “I won’t look or whatever, obviously, but I mean—if you—untended to boners suck, yeah?”

Harry clears his throat and shuffles an inch downwards, but he’s not any further away than he was before, and Louis can feel the heat of his skin through the layers of their clothes, and—Louis has never done this before, okay, he’s never wanked off in front of friends, even just for laughs, but. For some reason in his pot-muddled brain, _boners suck, yeah?_ makes plenty of goddamn sense or something because his hand moves to his crotch, uncertain.

Louis notices Harry’s turned even pinker than he was with the soft flush of high, so he does what he does best and turns it into a joke, like friendly orgasms are normal bro behavior.

“If you wanted to see me naked all you had to do was ask. I may not be easy, but I’m not _hard_.” He glances down. “Well. In the technical sense.”

It must work because Harry giggles and the tension in his body dissipates as he looks up to the ceiling.

Louis doesn’t really know where to start here, is the thing, but he figures there’s probably not a Jacking Off With Friends: For Dummies guide on this one, so he just kind of. Does it. He shimmies out of his pants, acutely aware of how Harry’s so carefully still beside him.

He takes a deep breath and trails a hand down his stomach, feels the muscles flutter there under his touch. With the fog of his high still kicked in full force and the warmth of the room almost suffocating him, he’s half-hard by the time he reaches his cock, and it only takes a few pulls before he’s there, red and full.

Harry’s texting, looking down at the keypad with all the concentration he can muster, and if Louis didn’t know him any better he would think he was genuinely disinterested. The new hitch in his breath and the twitch in his fingers give him away though, as they always do, because Harry’s a goddamn open book, especially when he’s flustered.

And okay, Louis isn’t _stupid_. He can admit it to himself perfectly well when he has feelings for someone. He is incredibly in tune with his emotions, actually, practically an ascetic monk at this point. Or Zayn, even.

Regardless, contrary to popular belief, he’s not entirely stunted in that arena. Which is why he can easily concede that he likes Harry. Really likes Harry too, likes the way he can acclimate to any given situation, crack a stupid joke at his own expense to ease someone else’s tension. He’s cute and sweet and super fucking weird, so yeah, inanimate objects have probably been known to coo over the boy, it’s whatever.

So the thrill it sends through Louis’s spine knowing that Harry might be kind of a little bit into this too, well. It’s not unfamiliar. If he finds himself coming a few minutes before is his Normal Teen Climax Rate™, Harry doesn’t have to know.

 

 

It should be awkward after that, Louis thinks.

(They discuss it. It’s not.)

 

 

So then it’s sort of a thing. Casual. He can do casual. Louis does not have a problem.

 

 

“I think you have a problem,” Zayn proclaims.

Niall agrees. “I agree. Friends don’t blow friends, as just like. A universal rule.”

It’s been a grand ten seconds into his confession and Louis already has a headache. “Yes, thank you, that’s the general consensus,” Louis sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Maybe you should, I don’t know, talk to him,” Liam supplies.

To be fair, he’s trying a little harder than Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, but Louis still just levels him with a stare.

Liam gazes back steadily. “Okay, so don’t talk to him? And continue writing in your diary about like, going ballroom dancing together and buying his and hers towel sets.” At Louis’s groan, Niall cackles and Zayn adds, “It’s true, I’ve seen your Amazon wishlist, fucker.”

Louis flops face-first into Zayn’s lap. The couch groans under the added weight. “When did you become such a dick, Liam. You’re supposed to be the nice, studious one.”

“That’s your own fault and you know it. Now.” Liam sighs and stands before kneeling to Louis’s level and patting him consolingly on the cheek. Louis hates him. “Talk to him, you twat.”

 

 

Louis does not talk to him because Louis is a rational, grounded guy, and he sees nothing good coming out of it. So no, he does not talk about it, steadfastly ignoring Zayn’s weird slinking around and occasionally getting off in the company of his pretty male friend. It’s whatever. Shit happens, but rest assured there are more pressing issues than who’s seen Louis Tomlinson’s dick. Global warming is a thing.

(Liam and Zayn remain unconvinced while Niall just laughs heartily and claps him on the back. It’s why he’s Louis’s favorite.)

It all comes to head, as these things do, a few Saturdays later.

The Balls-Out Beach Bonfire (patent pending) happens monthly, but the entirety of the campus acts like it’s fucking Christmas hols when it comes around. It would annoy Louis more if it wasn’t a great excuse to get extravagantly wasted on someone else’s bill. Also, most everyone gets naked.

“Except it’s December,” Zayn reminds him. “So, probably significantly less nudity.”

“Ah, Zayn, ever the realist.” Louis throws an arm around Zayn, steering him over to the makeshift snack bar. “You seem to overlook the fact that Ed here always gives me a Frosty Noggin’ half price and that, truly, is a Christmas miracle.”

He slams a fiver down and cups his chin in his hands expectantly, but Ed just rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“Not this year, Lou, the boss is cracking down on the holiday stuff. Full price for everyone.”

Louis’s face falls. “You might as well have just told me you shot Santa Claus in the face, Ed. What the fuck.”

“A bit dramatic, maybe?” comes Liam’s voice from absolutely nowhere. Fuck his friends’ ability to find him within three seconds of his arrival, honestly.

“Dramatic, my arse. I only have thirty quid to get drunk on.” Louis looks to the heavens as if the answer to his dilemma is in the stars. It’s not. “That’s like trying to send a camel through the eye of a needle, as it were.”

Louis faintly hears Zayn say, “Did he just quote Jesus?” before someone else is sidling up to his left, warming where his thin coat wasn’t.

“I got you a Peppermint Penguin,” says a familiar deep voice and oh. Of course he’s here.

He turns to Harry with a wide grin and snatches the drink, downing it in a single gulp. He doesn’t miss the way Harry tracks the motion of his Adam’s apple. “I was wrong about you, Styles. You’re the true Christmas miracle.”

Harry’s smile is so wide Louis can’t even regret saying it. “You doubted that?”

“Not for a second. But,” he says pointedly, “for future reference, Crème de Menthe is kind of the opposite of what I’m here for. So. Never again.”

Harry salutes ridiculously, smile never fading, and it takes a humiliating amount of willpower for Louis to refrain from reaching out and touching. “Roger that.”

Louis can’t tell for sure, but he thinks he doesn’t stop smiling for a while after that. He does, however, know it’s disgusting.

 

 

“You should be euthanized, honestly,” Zayn is saying, ever the supportive pal. “This is gross. Someone, please, put this pining creature out of its misery.”

“I’m not even _doing_ anything, you dick.” It’s a lie. Louis very much knows it’s a lie.

Zayn stares at him because he’s Zayn and he knows it’s a lie too, but truthfully, anyone could see that. Martians are probably rooting for his demise at this point.

The thing is, Louis knows that Harry knows that Louis’s watching. The thing is, that’s why he’s sitting in Ben’s lap right now, arm wrapped around his neck and mouth against his ear in what Louis can only describe as incredibly lewd for public. As an objective observer, of course.

Before he knows it, Zayn’s abandoned his side with one last pity pat, leaving him with his view and gross feelings. Harry chooses then to glance over and grin coyly at him before turning back to giggle at whatever it is Ben’s said and Louis absolutely wants to die. He’s very drunk and this is very uncalled for.

He doesn’t even have any _right_ to be jealous, and that’s what’s driving him mad. So they watch each other masturbate every now and then, it happens, boys get bored, but they haven’t even talked about it besides the quick, “Yeah, I’m cool, let’s keep doing it” conversation they had three weeks ago. Even worse, Harry _knows_ it’s getting him bothered, that’s why he’s being such a fucking tease, and that’s embarrassing on another level Louis doesn’t even want to think about. More than all that, though, he just really wants to touch Harry. He hopes the four Nuts ‘N Holly shots he did constitute as a legitimate excuse.

By the time he makes it over to Harry he can see that the flush high on his cheeks is not just from his proximity to the fire, and that makes the whole journey a bit less terrible on Louis’s part. When Harry looks up, his eyes are glossed-over and he’s sloshing his fruity drink on Ben’s lap, but he seems to forget to care once he spots Louis approaching.

“Louis!” His eyes are sparkling in the glow of the fire and the thin fabric of his long-sleeved tee shows off the tips of his sparrow tattoos. Louis wants to lick them, which is. Probably not the weirdest thing he’s ever thought about Harry Styles.

Louis shoves his hands in his pockets to keep from touching. “Aren’t you cold, kid?”

Harry grins, stands up and walks over to Louis, tucking his fingers into the inside of his coat. “No.”

This is normal, Louis reminds himself. Harry is tactile. He’s known that since the first time he spent the night at Harry’s dorm and he’d wrapped himself around Louis like an octopus on the floor while Ed and Jade had taken the bed. This is normal.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Harry says. He doesn’t remove his hands from Louis’s ribs to turn and yell, “Bye, Ben!” behind him before he’s pulling Louis in the direction of the shoreline, and. Okay.

Harry’s still got a sated grin stuck on his face, walking backwards to keep from removing his hands from the warmth of Louis’s coat by the time they’ve walked a good distance from the party. Louis rolls his eyes and starts shrugging it off.

“Jesus, H, just take the fucking coat. You’re a nuisance to society, I swear to God.”

For someone so clearly tipsy, Harry’s quick to pull the jacket back on Louis’s shoulders. “No, it looks good on you.” He does move to the side though, which Louis counts as a win until he’s wiggling his ice cold fingers into the back pocket of Louis’s jeans.

“Oi, Styles, don’t get frisky,” he warns.

Harry lays his head on Louis’s shoulder, peeking through his lashes at him, and Louis can’t be fucked to try to push him away, even for the sake of his sanity. “Isn’t that why you came and got me, though?”

He—oh. It’s one thing to know for himself he’s that transparent. It’s another thing entirely to be called out on it. They stop walking. Louis can feel Harry’s breath on his neck.

“We can, if you want. I wouldn’t mind.” Harry hesitates when Louis doesn’t respond. “I mean, just ‘cause like, we practically do it already. It’s just.” He shrugs and starts to move away.

In the distance, Louis can hear the party fading against the noise of the waves and suddenly, it’s all quiet except for their shared breaths fogging up the air. The moon is full tonight and it makes Harry look translucent with the midnight-black ocean behind him. Louis thinks for tonight, that’s good enough.

He pulls Harry in by the collar of his shirt and kisses him before he can overthink it, twisting his fingers through Harry’s belt loops. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated, and he lands farther south than he’d intended, but Harry’s mouth is warm and wet and yielding, opening up for him on contact. Louis’s kissed a lot of people in his lifetime, he even kissed Niall in grade ten on a dare once, but this is in a league of its own—it should be gross because they’re drunk and stumbling back-first into the sand, stuffing cold hands onto warm flesh, but it’s _not_ , it’s really, really not.

Harry pushes up for breath, but immediately gets back to it, licking and biting at Louis’s jawline, earlobe, throat. It almost overloads Louis’s senses and he has to center himself, so he focuses on the waves crashing a few feet away from them, the warmth spreading from his chest to his toes.

“You’re so hot, Lou,” Harry whines, laving over a love bite on Louis’s collarbone. “Wanted to kiss you for so long.”

Louis groans and flips them over, leaving Harry gasping beneath him. His jeans are already getting uncomfortably tight, which would be pathetic if he couldn’t feel Harry on his leg too. He pushes a knee between Harry’s and he gives instantly, legs falling apart as he grips Louis’s hips. Louis thinks he looks beautiful like this, mouth red and swollen, but then again, Louis thinks a lot of things about Harry that he probably shouldn’t.

Looking down at Harry, Louis almost wants to laugh, like—how long has he known this boy? And he’s already flustered and ready to drop to his knees for him, fuck, it’s too much, like. This is his friend’s kid brother and he’s thinking about what it would be like to have Harry’s lips wrapped around him, because—he’s really drunk. And he’s really stupid. It’s kind of funny, so Louis laughs.

Harry breathes out a surprised chuckle. “God, what’s so funny? Just suck me off already.”

“Since when do you get off on being a demanding twat, huh?” Louis bites down hard on Harry’s exposed shoulder. Harry shivers, full body, and Louis can feel it in his stomach, in his toes. His hands are cold, so he tucks them into Harry’s skin.

“Fuck—” Harry hisses.

Louis reaches down to palm at Harry’s crotch, can feel him growing impatient beneath him, and swallows Harry’s groan in his mouth.

“Someone could—see,” Harry whimpers, but the way he’s lifting his hips in the air for friction tells Louis he’s not overly concerned.

“Don’t care,” he replies anyway, shoving Harry’s skin-tight jeans and pants down in one go, and—well. It’s a little embarrassing how quickly his mouth starts watering at the sight of him, cold and shivering, but still flushed with heat and so hard it looks like it hurts.

Harry breathes out a shuddery breath. “Please,” he whispers, and that’s really all Louis can handle.

He takes the head of Harry’s cock in his mouth and sucks. Harry moans, almost loud enough for Louis to be worried about someone hearing, and shifts to lift his hips but Louis pushes him back down with sandy fingers, looking up at him in warning. “ _Lou_ ,” Harry whines, rutting up again.

“Be _still_ , okay? I’m a single man, not a porn star.” Harry chuckles breathlessly and nods, and at that, Louis takes him all the way down until he can feel him at the back of his throat.

“God,” Harry gasps. “You sure about that?”

Louis swallows around him and Harry clenches his fists. Louis pulls off smugly with a pop and says, “Honestly, kid, haven’t you ever done this before?” Harry can’t answer before Louis’s grinning and taking him back down.

It’s ridiculous how hard Louis is at this point, how much he gets off just on the fact that he’s _actually doing this_ , this isn’t some fever dream, can’t be because it’s three below outside. His fingers are turning purple, but he’s still so warm, warm, warm. And Harry’s so gentle, too, running his hands softly through Louis’s hair, barely-there tugs keeping him on the surface, his little sounds buzzing beneath his skin. He makes a lot of noise, but he’s not loud, just little moans and whimpers that have Louis gripping himself through his jeans to keep him from coming in his pants like a goddamn fourteen-year-old.

Soon enough, Harry’s tugging at Louis’s hair with a little more intent, whining, “ _Louis_ , Lou, gonna come,” but Louis just sucks him down with more force, pushes his bum further into the sand. Harry cries out as he comes, shirt rucking up underneath him to reveal the bottom tip of his butterfly tattoo, laid out on his tummy like an invitation. Louis swallows, glances at Harry still recovering from under his lashes, and kisses at the center of the ink, feather-light. It’s more tender than he’d intended, but it always is with Harry.

Harry leans up on his elbows and grins down at Louis, cheeks bright red under the moonlight. “C’mere,” he says.

Louis moves up his body and settles next to him. “What, Styles, still not enough for you?”

Harry’s eyes shine. “Nope. I wanna take care of you.”

Louis’s breath hitches as Harry trails his hand to his button, pops it open with a skill Louis will have to question later, and reaches in, pulling Louis out and thumbing at the head. “ _Shit_ ,” Louis breathes. He pushes into the pressure and Harry huffs at his neck, grazing his teeth over his jugular, and Louis groans at the contact, pulling back for a kiss. Harry’s breathless again too and, Jesus, that does things for Louis he’d really prefer to never think about.

He tucks his head into Harry’s shoulder as Harry pumps him, gripping at his hip to keep himself steady. He smells of salt water and firewood and Louis wants to taste, wants to be allowed to taste, but instead he just breathes in, times his thrusts to Harry’s pulls. He’s spilling over in a matter of minutes, the sound and warmth of Harry too much to bear.

Louis collapses back into the sand and watches as Harry leans up sideways on his elbow, stares at his come-wet hand, and licks slowly up his palm. He doesn’t break eye contact with Louis the whole time.

“Jesus,” Louis groans.

Harry grins, smug. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

 

 

Harry’s leaving for the holidays the next day. Louis promises himself he’s not going to miss him.

(He is, though, of course he is. He’ll miss his stupid-curly hair and his headscarves all wrapped up in between the ringlets. He’ll miss the dumb way he grins for Louis, like he knows something no one else does; the way he hums Miley Cyrus while he showers at Louis’s, smiles even wider when Louis makes fun of him for it. There’s the sex stuff too, of course, how he looks up all coy and innocent when he swallows Louis down, or opens his mouth wide and silent when Louis licks a stripe up his cock. Harry in general is a goddamn sensory overload, and he’s going to miss that, for fuck’s sake. It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all.)

He and Harry are friends. Louis’s fine.

 

 

The Styleses know people. And by “know people,” Louis doesn’t mean like, three rich dudes with law degrees. He means actual people, like socialites and shit, so they’re constantly having gatherings in rented out ballrooms, black-tie-only events and such. There’s a story behind it, Harry’s mum or something, Louis doesn’t really know, but whatever, what Louis does know is that Gemma’s always whining about the _bourgeois lifestyle_ or something. She’s an economics major, who knows.

Anyway, he shouldn’t really be surprised when Harry’s busy with one of these fancy shindigs the night before he leaves for hols, but he is surprised when Harry invites him along.

It’s casual tonight, apparently, so Harry’s just wearing a nice fitted blazer and dark jeans, while Louis stuck with a button-up. He still feels underdressed when they step in the mansion.

“I feel poor. And underdressed. Why am I here.”

Harry giggles and bumps his hip. “Chill, you look hot.”

Gemma scoffs loudly from behind them, and Louis jumps. “Ew, Harry, what the hell. Stop hitting on my friends.”

“Sorry, Gemma, I can’t hear you over Will Anderson, grade eleven.” Harry drapes an arm around Louis’s waist and Louis tries to be chill about it. This is casual. He can do casual.

Gemma, for her part, doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed, just rolls her eyes and looks pointedly at Harry’s hand on Louis’s hip. “Keep it PG, at least. This is a _proper party_.” With that, she flits off behind her mother, gathering up two flutes of champagne before Anne can reprimand her.

“Incredible,” Harry sighs, but he’s smiling. “Absolutely no shame.”

“Seems to run in the family.” Louis detaches himself from Harry’s grip, partly to get a glass of champagne, but also because he was beginning to feel a little overheated. Louis eyes Harry over the rim of his glass, taking a long, deliberate pull, reveling in the way Harry eyes his mouth and throat as he does so.

“Gimme some,” Harry whines, motioning for the glass, but Louis feigns shock and whips the glass away.

“Are you even old enough?” He’s looking at Harry expectantly because it’s an overused line, but it always gets Harry to giggle and swat at him. This time, though, Harry frowns.

“You know ‘m not a kid.”

Louis laughs at his expression and takes another pull. “Who’s gonna break the news to your Spongebob boxer briefs?”

It’s weird because—Harry always laughs at his jokes, even the slapstick ones where he’s just trying to take the piss out of Liam or Zayn or something, but. Now, he just half-smiles and turns away, grabbing his own glass from a passing waiter.

“You okay, H?” he begins, carefully. “You know I’m just kidding. Spongebob’s like, the pinnacle of entertainment, I get it.”

Harry actually does laugh this time, and Louis feels the tightness in his chest unwind a bit. “Yeah, just—you do know I’m only two years younger, right? If I were a kid, that would make this,” he gestures between the two of them, “a bit weird, don’t you think?”

Louis’s brows furrow. “Yeah. I didn’t know it bothered you, sorry, mate.” He hip-checks him for good measure, moving to look him in the face.

Harry shakes his head and smiles down at him, nudging him back. “Nah, we’re good.” He checks over his shoulder, where his mum is talking to a group of tired-looking businessmen. “Hey, I’ve gotta go make my rounds. You’ll be fine, right?”

“Oh, God,” Louis groans. “You’re not doing this to me. You’re not leaving me in a party better suited for a geriatric home. I can’t believe this.”

Harry laughs, moving his hand to cover his mouth when it gathers the attention of the whole left wing of the dining hall. “Jesus, calm the dramatics. I’ll be back later. Make friends or something.” At Louis’s blank looks, he continues, “I think Ed’s around here somewhere.” And then he’s giving Louis a thumbs up and trailing off and behind his mother, introducing himself to people Louis probably can’t afford to breathe around, much less touch.

He sighs and knocks back the rest of his champagne.

 

 

Louis hasn’t seen Harry in around an hour, but he’s delightfully tipsy and Ed is sturdy next to him.

“You seen your boyfriend around?” Ed asks, shouldering him off grab a drink and smile warmly at the maître d'.

Louis doesn’t bother correcting him on the boyfriend issue, probably because it’s Ed and Ed is safe. “No, he abandoned me for old men ages ago.” He sighs long-sufferingly, lamenting the loss of what he’s gotten used to being his ever-present heat blanket. “Has my arse gone flat, Ed? Can I just not keep them around anymore?”

An old woman looks affronted. Ed snorts into his glass. “Nah, mate, you’ve still got it.” At Louis’s next sigh, he rolls his eyes and says, “Go find him, stupid. He’s probably looking for you too.”

Louis doesn’t really know how it happens, but he ends up upstairs, where he’s pretty sure the party’s off-limits, but. He’s never been known to particularly care, so here he is.

He wanders for a bit, lost in all the cherry-stained doors and the echoing clacks his shoes make on the mahogany. It takes him a while, but eventually he runs straight into Harry Styles himself by the staircase. Louis never knew someone could actually do this outside of movies, but the string bean of a boy actually flings himself arse-first onto the top step, and he would’ve toppled all the way down if Louis hadn’t reached out and caught a flailing limb.

When he heaves him up and away from what was very nearly his probable demise, Harry simply _giggles_ , hands on Louis’s chest and breathes overzealously, “Ferris Bueller, you’re my hero.”

Louis seriously considers dropping him on his arse again. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he says, steadying Harry by his shoulders.

“Yeah, but you love it,” Harry laughs and, yeah. He’s got him there.

He stares at Louis for a bit, the alcohol he’s most definitely had sitting heavy in the deep red of his cheeks, and it’s just now that Louis realizes that they’re always otherwise inebriated when they do this. It sends a weird sort of a feeling to his gut, and he frowns.

Harry seems to notice because he frowns a bit too, but then perks up and pulls Louis along the corridor until they reach the very end, a room with a Do Not Disturb doorknob hanger, proclaiming it to be the master bedroom. Harry looks up at Louis with a demure little smile and slips in, dragging him along with him.

It’s dark in the room, but Louis can see the faint hint of snow falling through the window, twinkling in the the light of Rudolph’s decorative nose out front. The moon barely streams in, blocked by clouds, but Harry lights up in it, silver as a star. Louis smiles softly at him, too enamored for what they’re supposed to be, and tugs Harry back further into the room by two fingers.

Harry is soft and pliant tonight, goes easily. Louis wants him so bad his stomach aches with it.

“I need you,” Harry breathes into his neck, and Louis knows he shouldn't, but he lets it coil in his chest anyway, warm his fingertips.

“Let’s get on with it then,” he whispers, pulling Harry back with him toward the bed. His knees hit the mattress, then, giving out, and Louis’s glad for an excuse to sit _down_ , feeling dizzy with Harry’s heady scent and the alcohol he hadn’t even gotten the chance to drink. Harry crawls up his body, slips once on the way up, head in Louis’s lap, and giggles. “God, H, are you even sober enough for this?”

Harry nods, sitting back up, pink-cheeked and eager even with the beer in his veins. “ _Yes_ , hell yes, fully functional. I’ve been wanting you all night.” Louis can’t deal with this, really can’t deal with Harry talking, but before he can shut him up, Harry’s continuing: “Downs’airs, was thinking about you. What you did to me last night.” His lips are at Louis’s neck now, barely enough pressure to feel. “Almost came just thinking about it.”

And well, _Christ_. If that doesn’t get sent straight to his dick, the thought of Harry among the best and brightest of London, resisting the urge to palm himself through his jeans at the image of Louis on his knees—maybe doing it anyway, discreetly, underneath the table—then, like. Jesus.

“Why didn’t you?”

Harry grins, leans back on his haunches where he’s straddling Louis’s hips. He’s still close enough that Louis can feel his breath on his face, coming in hot puffs. “Wanted you to see me do it.”

Louis takes initiative then, rolling them over so Harry’s legs are wrapped around his waist and his hair is fanned out on the pillow, looking like the actual picture of blushing grace and wantonness all at once. He decides he can’t, really, really _can’t_ look at him, not when his legs are spread wide and his eyes are hooded, like it’s just for Louis, like this is the first time all over again. So he doesn’t. He closes his eyes instead, hitches Harry’s leg up higher on his waist and grinds down so hard Harry sputters out a gasp, contact too much even through the layers of clothes. Louis keeps on, relentless, _down, down_ , over and over again like he’s punishing Harry for _nothing_ , God, absolutely nothing. It’s not like it’s his fault Louis’s a trainwreck.

Harry trails his hands down, trying to find traction on Louis through all the movement. He catches his fingers on Louis’s waistband, other hand sliding under his shirt. “Can we—” he tries, cuts off for breath, starts again. “Can—get this off.”

Louis’s quick to unbutton Harry, strip him of his jeans and pants in one go. Harry, on the other hand, takes his time, pawing at Louis’s navel with no real success until Louis exasperatedly does it himself, all long-suffering. Harry smiles, unabashed, and Louis’s chest hurts. “You’re better at this than me,” he says.

Louis says, “Better at what” as the fabric slips off his ankles despite the stop, stop talking in his head. He wills himself to just do this without all Harry’s slow blinks and soft sounds, quirked lips filling his vision until it’s all he sees.

He wills himself, but it doesn’t work, of course not, because Harry tilts his head and replies easily, “Taking care of me.” He says it like it should be nothing, like the way that sits in Louis’s stomach and tastes in his mouth should mean nothing. Louis pulls their shirts off and pins Harry’s wrists back because really it’s all he can do. He cants his hips forward, fast and hot, and the slow, slick slide of their cocks has Harry breathing in heavily, “ _Lou_ , touch me please,” but his words are barely out of his mouth before they’re hushed by Louis’s lips.

Louis wants for this to be what everyone else seems to think it is, just a warm place to stick his dick, but it’s not, so painfully not. Even if he tried to fake himself out as is his trademark, Harry’s so fucking _receptive_ , every touch eliciting a moan or a gasp, so it’s kind of impossible, sue him. Louis wants to shove his fingers in Harry’s mouth, suck on his tongue, anything to get him to shut _up_ because the sad truth is Louis could probably come just from those little noises, the way he looks up at Louis like this is all he wants him to be doing for the rest of his life, just touching enough for goosebumps.

He doesn’t do any of that, though, no. He’s masochistic like that.

Instead, he grips Harry’s ass to pull him closer, rougher than he’d really intended, but Harry arches into it anyway, of course he does. Louis has to hand it to him, really—he’s got stunning self-control, because through all this (all this inaction, the teasing that Harry seems to like so much) he’s shown considerable restraint, hands bunched into the covers to avoid touching himself.

Louis bites his collarbone, murmurs, “Flip over.”

They haven’t done this before, Louis knows, but Harry huffs and his pupils get blown impossibly wider. He’s breathless already and _God_ , Louis knew he was easy, knew getting him worked up wasn’t exactly a chore, but all they’ve done is rutting, kid stuff, and he’s already like _this_. It makes it easier for Louis to imagine that it’s because of him, not because Harry’s naturally sensitive to touch.

Surprisingly, though, Harry shakes his head at Louis’s command and pushes back harder into Louis’s probing fingers, a pinky slipping down his crack. “No. Wanna see you.”

And watching Harry watch him, it’s like. Okay. Louis’s played the self-preservation game long enough to be able to say no, but Harry. It’s different, is the thing, because Harry is wide-eyed noble intentions, would never hurt a fly that wasn’t totally accidental and probably personally apologizes to those he does. So yeah, Louis can’t say no, but neither could the fucking fly. If he’s going to crash and burn, he might as well go all out.

He takes his time opening Harry up, one, two, three fingers, pushing every little sound out of him that he can drink in. (Harry doesn’t break eye contact until Louis has to.) He slicks himself up and he’s hard, achingly so, is about to push in when Harry stops him, pulls him down slow and sweet for a kiss, and Louis feels like this is probably the breaking point. He might embarrass himself and _cry_ or something, but he doesn’t. It’s a close thing.

“Okay,” Harry says, tender and cheeky all at once. He taps Louis’s hip, grinning. “You can go now.”

“Thanks for the permission, mum.”

Harry’s nose wrinkles and he wiggles to get away with no real determination. “ _Ew_ , God, no, Lou, stop. Definitely not the place to even say ‘mum,’ much less call me one.”

Louis laughs and leans down to brush a kiss across his forehead, moving the hair from where it’s fallen in his eyes. His head is screaming, _too tender, too close_ , but through all this dancing around each other, he’s decided he’s not really in the business of denying himself whatever he can get of this boy, and before he can overthink it, he’s pushing in all at once, pulling a shuddering hiss from Harry’s throat.

By the time he bottoms out, Harry’s already wiggling, needing _movement, Louis, something_ , so he draws back, smoothing his hands down Harry’s sides, and slams back in.

“Fuck, oh my God, _Louis, Louis, Louis_ —” he sobs, but Louis quiets him with his mouth, thrusting in and out with a new fervor. Harry’s thighs are wrapped tight around Louis’s waist, and he squeezes with every intake, making little _ah ah ah_ sounds against Louis’s mouth. His orgasm is swelling much too fast, and he’s trying so hard to think about anything else, about how the snow’s probably falling on the beach, about the people downstairs, chattering animatedly about stock market numbers and the pitfall of the fucking economy or something. It doesn’t really work when Harry starts meeting Louis halfway, gripping his shoulders so, so gently and looking up at him like for all the world he can’t tell the difference between him and the moon hanging low outside.

“I’m gonna—” Harry starts, and then Louis’s coming, hard, sees constellations behind his eyes. He rocks in a few more times, riding out his high, and Harry follows shortly after, moaning loud enough for the whole house to hear. Neither of them really cares.

They’re still catching their breath when Louis says, awestruck, “I can’t believe we just fucked in some poor old lady’s bed.”

Harry howls in his trademark Louis laugh. “Probably spiced up her love life a bit, though, eh?”

Louis just shakes his head at the ceiling. “We’re going to hell.”

Harry grins. “As long as it’s together.”

For such a cornball line, Louis finds himself flushing. He looks over at Harry. “Yeah, okay.”

 

 

Niall comes over to Louis’s during the break the next week even though his family lives in another country. Louis’s stopped asking Niall questions at this point.

He walks in with three bags of takeout (“For two people?” Louis asked. Niall had scoffed. “No, for me.”) and flounces on the sofa, looking up at Louis. He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds until Louis sits on the arm of the couch and looks down at him warily.

“Uh, Niall—”

“Harry told me everything.”

Louis groans and falls back, head hitting the wall behind him. “Jesus Christ.”

“Hey, listen, no judgment, dude,” Niall says, “but also, maybe you should sort yourself out.”

“Niall—”

Niall leans forward. “No, hear me out for a second. You know I never do this.” They stare at each other for eleven seconds (Louis counts) before he sighs and sits fully on the couch next to him.

“Fine. Shoot.”

“Harry likes you and you like him so talk to him and stop being a prick.”

Louis has always liked Niall for being straightforward, but now he kind of wishes he had pre-Louis Liam. He needs a soft-spoken friend.

“Right,” he exhales, because yeah. “Okay.”

They get back to campus a week into January and Louis heads straight for his dorm, elbowing freshmen out of the way.

“Watch it, dick!” someone yells.

“Oh, fuck off, I’m on a mission!”

When he opens the door to his dorm, he expects to see Liam there, bed freshly made and clothes tucked away as is the norm, but what he doesn’t expect to see is Harry sitting hesitantly on the edge of Louis’s bed.

“Uh—hey, Lou.” Harry’s fidgeting, nervously twisting the edge of Liam’s bedsheets between his fingers. Louis doesn’t like seeing Harry like this, unsure and wary, especially not when it comes to Louis himself. He feels himself soften a bit as he moves towards the boy.

“Hey, H.” He settles next to him, carefully leaving space between them. The gap feels much too cold. “You have a good break? Meet any boys to take home to the family?”

Out of everything he could’ve said, that’s probably the worst idea he’s ever had, hands down. He can physically feel Niall shaking his all-knowing head from here. He wants to slam his head into the nearest wall and maybe concuss himself. More than anything, he wants to take the frown off Harry’s face right now.

“No? That’s not—did you?” He looks confused, and kind of hurt, but still hopeful because he’s Harry and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t hold out just a little bit. Louis kind of loves him.

“No, no,” he amends, moving fractionally closer, like maybe Harry will still want to push him away, keep his distance. “I—sorry. I’m. Yeah, I’m kind of stupid, if you haven’t noticed.”

Harry smiles tentatively. Louis misses the grin he’s used to him wearing. “You _are_ a drama major…”

“Suck my dick, Harry Styles, I could beat your weak arse at times tables any day.”

They’re laughing then, and this feels comfortable, this feels right. The tension dissipates just as quickly as it came into the room and they’re left just looking at each other, grins not moving.

Harry is the first to break the silence. “So, I kinda like you, Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis’s grin widens so much he can feel his eyes crinkling, and he hates it, but he loves it more. “Yeah, okay, I kinda like you too, Harry Styles.”

Harry, for his part, looks dumbfounded. “Are you telling me it was really that easy the whole time? I swear to God, Lou—”

“Oh Jesus Christ, Harry, just kiss me.”

When Harry drags him in, Louis can only be a little bit disappointed that Harry beat him to the punch.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this all in one day—which is hilarious and embarrassing in and of itself—and only read it through once so sorry idk
> 
> you can talk to me on [tumblr](http://hotmomaesthetic.tumblr.com/) and tell me what you think etc!


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